


Janus

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [42]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Domestic, F/M, Romance, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-19
Updated: 2009-11-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:53:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's so real, this other face of his, so very not a mask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Janus

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series.

Of all her lovers, Spike's the first one to be exactly the right height for her to rest her head on his shoulder without giving either of them a crick in the neck. Not exactly a sign from heaven, but it's comfy. He's sprawled out on the bed with a lurid paperback propped up on one knee. She's curled up half-asleep beside him, head on his chest, hand on his belly. It always takes Spike awhile to get to sleep, even though their normal bedtime's around three in the morning - it's that nocturnal vampire thing. But the candles on the nightstand are dim enough for her to sleep by and bright enough for him to read by, so that's OK.

She burrows closer, propping herself up on one elbow. It's almost a checklist of normality when she looks at him: glasses slipping down his nose, hair still damp and curly from the shower, sheet draped negligently across his privates. The candles lend his pale skin an illusion of a sun-touched warmth.

But the glasses don't sit quite right over eyes that flash yellow in the uncertain light. It's fascinating, when the demon in him surfaces. It's not just the brow ridges. The whole shape of his face changes: his nose broadens, his jaw thrusts out to accommodate his fangs. She can hear little scrunchy noises as the bones shift. And it's so real, this other face of his, so very not a mask. It has pores, and crows-feet. Tiny translucent peach-fuzzy hairs here, coarse dark beard-shadow there. How can you not want to touch? She could reach out and draw a line up the exact center of his forehead with one finger. Just like that.

One finger, then two, massaging the cool flesh. Her caresses turn to long firm strokes along the ridges, and Spike gives a little moan. She adds a dip and circle just over the flat spot at the bridge of his nose, where the brow ridges come together. His book falls shut. She lips the brutal jut of his brow, dropping butterfly kisses light as breath on his forehead. Her tongue-tip traces the jagged path of the scar that runs across the convolutions of cartilage and bone on both his faces.

Spike's vibrating with drowsy, blissed-out satisfaction, the crescent moons of his eyes aglow beneath half-closed lids. His fingers clench and release in the sheets, clench and release. She cups his face in her hands and draws her thumbs across the planes of his cheekbones, and his book thumps to the floor. His head lolls back on the pillow, his glasses falling askew. Her tongue goes boldly among the ivory blades of his fangs, into the heart of the enemy stronghold, and so disarms it: when she pulls away his face is human once more, his eyes a daylit blue, and in them is wonder.

His other face is always there, lurking deep in the bone. She hasn't banished the demon. But at times like this, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she doesn't have to.

END


End file.
